Leila

by Robin Jenkins

  One member, though, did attend. This was Alec Maitland, in civilian clothes.

  All the College lecturers, with one exception, attended both ceremony and reception. Miss Leithbridge sulked at home.

  Saidee, Sandilands’ amah, was present, looking very proud. When they returned from their honeymoon she was to continue in their service. In the Principal’s large house several servants would be needed.

  Thomas Harvey, deputy to His Excellency the British Resident, telephoned Sandilands to say that he was looking forward to attending the wedding (although he hadn’t been invited) and to insinuate, in his bland oblique English way, that Sandilands, as husband of Abad’s daughter, would be in an excellent position to pass on information about the People’s Party, if he thought such information would be helpful to the proper authorities. There had been suave mumbles about it being to everyone’s advantage to keep subversive elements out.

  Twenty-Six

  ON THE plane, trying to sort out his feelings, Sandilands could hardly believe that this beautiful woman beside him, in so many ways still a stranger, was now his wife. Surely it had all happened, and was still happening, not to him, not to the person he had known all his life and had often disliked, but to someone else hidden in him. It must have been that other person that Leila had fallen in love with and that Christina at the airport had embraced and kissed. Who was it then, as his elbow touched Leila’s, felt this immense and yet humble joy? And who was it remembering the little girl with affection and pride?

  Leila had said something. She had to repeat it, with a smile. ‘This friend who’s coming to see me in Singapore, perhaps I should warn you, has just been released from prison.’

  ‘What was he in prison for?’

  ‘Political reasons. You must not, at your peril, criticise the leadership in Singapore. Nor must you wear your hair too long.’

  In spite of the humorous remark, made no doubt to conciliate him, he could not help frowning. This was the familiar Andrew Sandilands. He objected to having his honeymoon spoiled by grubby politics.

  ‘How long was he in prison?’ he asked.

  ‘Five years. He has been let out because he’s old and very ill. In fact, he’s dying.’

  The old Andrew Sandilands would have felt a vague sympathy for the old ‘martyr’ but would have seen it as none of his business. This other liberated Andrew Sandilands, because Leila was involved, wanted to be involved too.

  ‘Is he Malay?’

  ‘No. Chinese. He’s really a friend of my father’s but I’ve known him for years. A wise, kind, cultured, hopeful old man.’

  ‘Hopeful?’

  ‘Yes. He thinks that in the end we shall learn to love one another.’

  The Sandilands of only six weeks ago would have sneered at such absurd optimism, which surely was contradicted by history and by the old man’s own experience. The Sandilands of now was sceptical but did not sneer. What he did was think of Christina. Love might not be the solution but it was the only consolation.

  He looked out at the stars. ‘I hope Christina’s all right,’ he said.

  ‘Of course she’ll be all right. The Robinsons are kind people. They’ll take good care of her.’

  ‘And your father will keep an eye on her.’

  ‘Yes, but she’s not a baby, you know. She’s quite self-reliant. They say she’s very like what I was at her age.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m sure she is. But perhaps we should have brought her with us.’

  ‘On our honeymoon?’ Leila laughed. ‘She understood. She said she’d rather stay at home and play with her friends.’

  There was a little incident as they were going through immigration. The Chinese official examining passports looked at Leila’s and then at her and then went through the door behind him, saying ‘One moment, please.’ Seconds later another officer, his superior, came out with Leila’s passport in his hand.

  ‘Mrs Azaharri?’ he asked, smiling.

  She still had her old passport. There hadn’t been time to have it changed.

  ‘Now Mrs Sandilands,’ she said. ‘I was married this morning. This is my husband.’

  ‘Is there anything wrong?’ asked Sandilands. ‘I am a British citizen. So, therefore, is my wife.’

  ‘She still has her Savu passport.’

  ‘There wasn’t time to change it.’

  ‘I see.’ He handed Leila her passport. ‘Have a pleasant honeymoon.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Sandilands, as they moved on to collect their luggage.

  ‘It seems they have my name on their list.’

  ‘What list?’

  Of course he knew about those lists that governments had, of suspicious and dangerous characters, but they had meant nothing to him in the past. They had represented a world of mess and misery far removed from his. Now it had come close, in the person of his beautiful wife.

  ‘Don’t look so alarmed,’ she said, smiling. ‘They’re letting me in, aren’t they?’

  Yes, but would they have her, and therefore him too, followed?

  He could not help thinking that Jean Hislop’s name would never be on any of those lists.

  Twenty-Seven

  HALF AN hour after they had registered at Raffles Hotel he was telephoning Savu. He intended to do it every evening. He had asked the Robinsons if they would mind. They had been amused, for he was only the child’s stepfather after all and besides he didn’t have the reputation of being the kind of bachelor who made a fuss of children and was affectionately called uncle by them. Yet here he was fussing over Christina more than her mother.

  Leila was lying on the bed. She had taken off her costume and was wearing only white brassiere and briefs. She looked lovely.

  He had trouble getting through, but persevered and at last heard Ann Robinson’s cheerful voice.

  ‘Good evening, Andrew. We’ve been expecting your call. Christina’s fine. She and Mary are having their shower together. It’s a wonder you can’t hear their screams. That’s what little girls are like, you know. Do you want to talk to her or shall I just tell her you called?’

  ‘Yes, that would do.’ But he felt disappointed. ‘Perhaps I could talk to her tomorrow night. She’s all right, though? Not pining or anything?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. She’s really a very happy, independent little girl.’

  ‘So she is. I’ll phone again tomorrow about the same time. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course we don’t mind.’

  ‘Perhaps I could talk to her then.’

  ‘I’ll have her prepared. Did you have a nice flight to Singapore?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  He put the telephone down. ‘I didn’t get speaking to her. She and Mary were having a shower together.’

  ‘What a good idea.’ Leila got up and came over to him. The overhead fan stirred her hair. ‘But I’ve got an even better one. This is our wedding night, remember.’

  He remembered, but it wasn’t quite the time yet. He had calculated that it would come after dinner, when he had drunk a good deal of wine and felt bolder.

  Her offering herself to him prematurely was disconcerting.

  God forgive him, he was reminded of the Shamrock whores. They, women of the East like her, had given up their chastity for money. She was doing it for love of him. Yes, but he wasn’t worth it.

  ‘What’s the matter, Andrew?’ she asked, quietly. ‘Don’t you want me?’

  Yes, but he could not have her while he felt unworthy. It wasn’t only his betrayal of Jean, though that counted.

  ‘What have I done?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. He could never have explained.

  ‘Was it true what Miss Hislop said? Why did you marry me then?’

  She turned away, picked up her dressing-gown, and went into the bathroom.

  He heard what sounded like her weeping but it could have been a tap running.

  There was his suitcase, open but not yet unpacked. He could escape t
o another hotel. It would mean the ruin of his marriage; worse, it would mean his being cut off from Christina.

  He knocked on the bathroom door.

  ‘It’s not locked,’ she said.

  Was there contempt in her voice? There ought to be, for he deserved it.

  He went in. She was standing in front of the mirror, staring at her tearful but resolute face.

  He stood beside her. ‘I’m sorry, Leila.’

  ‘So am I, Andrew.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘And I love you. But it’s difficult.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We don’t know each other well enough. My father said I was hurrying you into marriage. He was right, but then, you see, Andrew, I did not want to lose you.’

  ‘And I didn’t want to lose you.’

  ‘Well then, we have each other.’

  ‘And we have Christina.’

  She smiled. ‘She’s important to you, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she is.’ Though he would have found it hard to explain why.

  ‘And you’re important to her.’

  ‘Am I? I hope so.’ Again he remembered the child embracing him at the airport.

  Christina’s love could be his certificate of exemption.

  ‘Since we’re here, Andrew, shall we have our shower together?’

  Twenty-Eight

  NEXT MORNING at breakfast Sandilands noticed some of the other guests smiling at them, with goodwill; they were being recognised as a honeymoon couple. He did not mind. He was the happiest and proudest man in Singapore and did not care who saw it. Perhaps in the smiles directed at him there was a small element of mockery, in that he was a man of thirty-six or so as delighted as a child with a cherished toy. He remembered Christina’s joy in her red bicycle; but in the smiles given Leila there was nothing but amazed admiration. No wonder, for she was astonishingly beautiful, because she was also astonishingly happy.

  A servant crept up to say that there was a telephone call for Mrs Azaharri.

  ‘It can’t be for you,’ said Sandilands. ‘You’re Mrs Sandilands.’

  She kissed his cheek as she got up. ‘I’ll put them right, whoever they are.’

  She was soon back, looking sad. The old Chinese who was to visit her wasn’t able to come: he was too ill. If she wished she could go to see him. She had said that she did wish. She hoped Andrew wouldn’t mind. She promised not to be long. This was an old man whom she honoured and whom she had known all her life.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ said Sandilands.

  She was doubtful. Was it possible that she loved him and yet did not trust him? Yes, it was.

  ‘Are you sure you want to?’ she asked.

  ‘Very sure.’ He wanted to be in her company always.

  ‘It’s in a rather run-down part of the city.’

  ‘All the more reason I should go with you.’

  ‘I was warned I might be followed.’

  ‘By policemen, do you mean?’

  ‘Yes. He’s regarded here as a dangerous revolutionary. Everyone who visits him will come under suspicion. Even you, Andrew.’

  He did not smile. ‘Has he, as a revolutionary, ever advocated the use of force?’

  ‘As a last resort, yes, I suppose he has.’

  He smiled now, pretending that the question he was about to ask was playful. ‘Would you and your father ever advocate force?’

  ‘It would be very foolish of us to do so in Savu, wouldn’t it? Look at all the might His Highness could use against us. Hasn’t he an understanding with the British? Troops would be flown in. Besides, you’ve said yourself how peaceable our people are.’

  He had to admit it. ‘So they are.’

  They took a taxi. They held hands. He glanced through the rear window to see if they were being followed. A dark-blue car kept close behind them.

  ‘Mr Lee, like Mr Anderson, was a prisoner of the Japanese,’ she said. ‘He too was tortured. You will see. Two of his fingers are missing. They were chopped off.’

  Just then Sandilands saw on the pavement a group of Japanese tourists, laden with cameras. They were enjoying themselves in the Lion City where they were welcome guests. This time they came with wads of yen, not swords.

  Soon they were in a district of tall bleak apartment blocks. Here the car following them was more conspicuous.

  At a closemouth a young Chinese man was waiting for them. He reminded Sandilands of Albert Lo. He had the same guarded smile and watchful eyes. He greeted Leila with respect. As lawyers she and her husband had, at risk to themselves, defended dissidents.

  Sandilands was given a quick curious glance and then ignored. He was not a comrade.

  There was no lift. They trudged up six flights of stairs. The place was clean but sour-smelling. There were no graffiti.

  Who was it, thought Sandilands, that said the poor would be with us always? For all the singing there would be no overcoming.

  They came to a door, like all the others, painted a dull green. There was nothing to indicate that within, dying, was an old man who had once been a professor of philosophy and who still believed in a time when poverty, war, and exploitation would be abolished.

  Their escort knocked cautiously. The door was opened by a Chinese woman with grey hair and tired, stern eyes. She smiled when she saw Leila. They embraced, Sandilands was embarrassed. Here was a Leila he had not known and, to be truthful, did not want to know: a Leila who would never be made welcome in the Golf Club.

  The woman was not sure how she should greet Sandilands. Leila introduced him as her husband. She smiled at him then, but not cordially.

  The room was barely furnished – no carpets on the floor and no pictures on the walls. It was not a home but a place of refuge, not to be stayed in long. There was a bed. On it lay a shrivelled old man. His eyes were shut and would never, it seemed to Sandilands, be opened again. If he was breathing it was not detectable.

  Leila took the old man’s hand. Sandilands noticed that the fingers were missing. She spoke, in English, but the old man did not hear her, or if he did was too far away to answer.

  The visit was fruitless. Leila might have got herself in trouble for the sake of an old man who was dead or very close to it. At any moment there might come a banging on the door. The rest of the honeymoon might be spent in separate jails.

  But there was silence, except for a contemptuous snuffling made, Sandilands realised, with shame, by himself. What he meant by it was that it made little difference to a private man who governed, whether the autocracy was a despot’s or a parliament’s. All he himself wanted was to be let live in quietness with Leila and Christina. He could not remember ever having voted. He had lived so long abroad that his name was on no electoral roll at home. He had never regretted it. Yet here he was, in this miserable room six storeys up, with secret policemen waiting below, in the presence of suspected revolutionaries.

  The young man spoke in Chinese, the woman nodded, and then in English said to Leila that they should go now. If her father awoke she would tell him that Dr Abad’s daughter had come to see him. He would be very pleased.

  Leila kissed the old man on the brow. It was a kiss that declared her love for him and also defiance of his and her enemies.

  Sandilands was shocked by that kiss and by the tears in her eyes. Had she forgotten that she was now his wife?

  They went down the stairs in silence.

  The taxi was waiting. So was the blue car. Sandilands could see the two men in it. They looked bored. He felt sure they had been talking to the taxi-driver, who seemed nervous.

  ‘What now?’ asked Sandilands. ‘Would you like to do some shopping?’

  Too late he realised he was being insensitive and unsympathetic.

  ‘I’d rather go back to the hotel.’

  Only then did he try to understand what a strain it had been on her. It had meant nothing to him but surely, if he loved her, it should have been agony seeing her suffer.

  ‘I hope you don�
�t mind, Andrew,’ she said, humbly.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  They said very little on the way to the hotel.

  Twenty-Nine

  THE CHINESE clerk at the reception desk looked grave as he handed Sandilands the key. Was he trying to disguise his amusement at the honeymooners hurrying back for an afternoon of blissful consummation? But Sandilands hadn’t been in the room two minutes before the clerk, his voice also grave, telephoned, asking him to come to the desk at once. ‘By yourself, please.’

  ‘Why, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Come at once, please.’

  ‘All right.’ Had the police come looking for Leila?

  She was in the bathroom. He called to her that he would be back in a minute.

  The clerk did not smile on seeing him. ‘Please come into the office, Mr Sandilands.’

  Sandilands was sure that in the office there would be policemen. Therefore he went in truculently. But the office was empty.

  ‘I must explain,’ said the clerk. ‘About an hour ago there was a telephone call for you, from Savu, from Dr Abad, who is, I believe, your wife’s father.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. What was it about? What did he say?’

  ‘He said I was to tell you when your wife was not present.’

  Sandilands was more mystified than alarmed. ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘That you were to telephone this number immediately.’

  The clerk showed it written on a piece of paper. Sandilands recognised it, it was the number of Savu Hospital. He had used it often enough when telephoning Jean.

  He was alarmed now. Had something happened to Jean?

  ‘I shall leave you alone, Mr Sandilands,’ said the clerk, and went out.

  Sandilands sat down by the telephone. It might take a while to get through and besides, his legs had turned unsteady.

  He dialled the number. Strange sea-like noises were heard: Savu was an ocean away. He tried again. This time there was a shrill whistling. But the third time was lucky, though he had a feeling now that lucky was not an appropriate word.